


Silence

by TwelveForever



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveForever/pseuds/TwelveForever
Summary: She's not even sure how long it has been since she has seen the light in The Doctor's eyes. His skin is pale, his blue eyes glazed over, unfocused, his lips as cold as ice.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> More whump that caused me pain while writing.

_one._  
two.  
three.

 __  
  
It wasn't supposed to be this way.

 

 _ten._  
eleven.  
twelve.

 

It wasn't supposed to be like _this_.  
 

  
 _twenty-four._  
twenty-five.  
twenty-six.  
 

  
It was supposed to be gentle, kind, _loving_.  
 

  
 _fifteen._  
sixteen.  
seventeen.  
 

  
No one was supposed to be in pain. No one was supposed to curse, to yell, to cry.  
 

  
 _twenty-eight._  
twenty-nine.  
thirty.  
 

  
This was not how The Doctor and Clara were supposed to _end._

  
 _head tilt._  
chin lift.  
nose pinch.  
breathe.  
breathe.

 

* * *

  
Clara had hesitated on the first compressions, and now she worries that might have been it; the sole reason why the man by her knees won't wake up. It's their lives after all; a miscalculation, a misinterpretation… they're human errors for most people. But she had hesitated earlier because there were so many wrong things about that action alone.

 

Clara isn't supposed to be doing this; she isn't even supposed to try. There's a rule for these types of things, that for certain people with certain degrees of injuries, you shouldn't even bother hoping they'd come back, and you mustn't even pray. 

 

 _one._  
two.  
three.

  
   
She's not even sure how long it has been since she has seen the light in The Doctor's eyes. His skin is pale, his blue eyes glazed over, unfocused, his lips as cold as ice.

 

Her fingers pinch the nostrils of the time lord's nose. She doesn't seem to notice that the blood – The Doctor's blood – has stained her fingers, red, black and grim.

 

In fact, Clara doesn't notice anything at all.

 

She doesn't register the fact that the rain has stopped. The only sound that could be heard was her own breathing.

 

Not even The Doctor's.  
 

 __  
ten.  
eleven.  
twelve.

  
   
Clara thinks she should have said something earlier. She counts thirty compressions on each side of his chest and blows another two breaths into The Doctor's mouth.

 

A voice in her head tells her that this type of contact, the connection between their lips, should have happened months earlier. A year earlier. In the Tardis. In her flat. In space. Anywhere. But it didn't, and now Clara has her lips on The Doctor's, cold, tinged blue, cracked and only parted because she's forcing them open.

 

They don't respond to Clara.

 

Her weight shifts, and the force is a little bit stronger, if only to make up for the lack of energy. Their adventure had left her exhausted and she's only running on adrenaline now, if anything.

 

With tensed muscles, Clara begins to feel the ache slapping her across her shoulders. The cuts along her arms and torso are burning, and the lump in her throat swallows guilt and fear like a black hole. It's trying to cut off her circulation; her arms feel numb. It's trying to cut off her airway; she feels panicked.

 

Thirty compressions, thirty compressions, two breaths, repeat.

 

She counts in her head the number of times the palm of her hands dig into The Doctor's chest, and begs on each count.

 __  
  
twenty-two.  
twenty-three.  
twenty-four.  
 

  
She's wearing her heart on the sleeve of her arms, maybe The Doctor's hearts would hear hers, erratic, falling apart and respond.  
 

 __  
seven.  
eight.  
nine.

 

And she hears something - _feels_  something – from deep inside The Doctor's chest. Clara's face lights up, and the dread in her body instantly dissipates. The forceful lump in her throat falls a little; the thumps in her chest quicken. Her palm, firmly pressed along the creased and muddied white shirt, lifts hesitantly.

 

"D-Doctor?"

 

The man shows no sign of consciousness.

 

"Doctor, can you hear me?”

 

Concerned, Clara presses two fingers against his neck, seeking for the beats. When she still feels nothing under her fingertips, Clara feels her face heat up in apprehension.

 

"Doctor?"

 

But even with her quivering voice and heart on her sleeves, The Doctor does not respond.

 __  
  
nineteen.  
twenty.  
twenty-one.

  
   
Clara continues with her compressions, the fact that the false-beat earlier was The Doctor's ribs cracking doesn't falter her. Rather, she's become more determined, eager to make up for that momentary lapse. Her face remains twisted in its hardened, forlorn expression.

 

She doesn't waste time, pinching his nose, blowing into The Doctor's mouth and checking for signs of his heartbeats. His lips that are laced with blue now have a golden tint to them as she pushes her palms into his chest. She knows they're too far away from the Tardis.

 

She's exhausted and eventually her eyes droop so low, she has to bite the inside of her cheeks until they bleed in order to wake herself up. But when Clara's arms give out, landing her face first onto The Doctor's chest, the cotton of the shirt soaks up the tears Clara didn't know she had been shedding.

 

She immediately pushes herself up, fear overriding her systems. She needed to see The Doctor's smile again. She needed to hear The Doctor's voice again. She needed The Doctor.

 

With what little ounce of energy she has left, she positions her arms over The Doctor's chest again.

 

She falters.

 

Her own heartbeat is loud, almost too loud, and her breathing is beyond control. Clara recognizes her own panic, but even so, she can't escape from staring at The Doctor's face. It has the same look as when he's asleep; peaceful, but now with a canvas of gruesome colours; blue, gold and grey and  _dead_. Clara's head was beginning to hurt with how heavy her heart was crying.

 

Slowly and hesitantly, she presses her lips together, tastes the dry salt and the blood. Her tongue is dry while her face is wet. Her hands are still stitched together on top of The Doctor's chest, pressing lightly as she can because it seems as if she can't do anything else but.

 __  
  
twenty-two.  
twenty-three.  
twenty-four.

  
   
Clara continues to study The Doctor. Her breathing has changed, letting go of slow and steady breaths as she memorizes every contour, every angle and brow line that has shaped The Doctor. She couldn't understand why The Doctor bothered to watch her sleep at night, and now, Clara herself is watching.

 

She looks at the sleeping Time Lord.

 

Finally, Clara unknots her hands, runs her fingers through The Doctor's grey curls, before covering her mouth, pressing hard on her face to prevent the onslaught of tears from falling.

 

And all she could think about was how this was so _wrong_.

 

She wonders if The Doctor knew that. That Clara truly cares for him, desires him, is in _love_ with him.

 __  
  
twenty-four.  
twenty-five.  
twenty-six.

  
   
Her hands remained hovered over the spots that she had been pressing on for almost the past hour. There are miniscule nudges, counting the seconds passing by.  
 

 __  
twenty-seven.  
twenty-eight.  
twenty-nine.  
 

  
She thinks about somehow going back in time and changing it so she would be the lifeless one, and she keeps picturing The Doctor _alive_ and _well_ until her shoulders start shaking uncontrollably again.

 

Clara can feel the rims of her eyes stinging, refusing to make a sound until the noises coming from her throat turn ugly. She can barely see straight, but still focuses her view onto The Doctor.

 

_thirty._

 

Clara leans forward again in determination, pinches his nose and breathes two more breaths in to him before she pulls back. With two hands intertwined again, Clara repositions herself above his body.

 

Her face, aggressive and determined, focuses hard on the wet and bloody shirt. She digs her palms in to his chest.  
 

 __  
one.  
two.  
three.

  
   
“Breathe!”

 __  
  
eight.  
nine.  
ten.

  
   
Clara swallows the lump of denial. She thinks about everything The Doctor has ever done for _her_ , how he would never give up.

 __  
  
sixteen.  
seventeen.  
eighteen.  
 

  
She keeps praying. Clara doesn't stop praying.

 __  
twenty-nine.  
thirty.  
one.  
 

  
"Don't you bloody dare!"

 __  
  
six  
seven.  
eight.  
 

  
"Please Doctor…"

 __  
  
fourteen.  
fifteen.  
sixteen.  
 

  
"Come back to me you daft old man,”

 __  
  
twenty-eight.  
twenty-nine.  
thirty.


End file.
